Take advantage while you can.
Go up to a tree and touch its thick bark.
Twently years or less they'll all be gone.
We'll soon forget what it was like to breath fresh crisp morning air.
Which soon enough will be filled with the scent of death.
Your breath is numbered.
We care so much about the amount in our pocket than the anount that is left.
So little.
I can't believe there was actually trees living in the soil once.
One day it will be just a figment of what it once was.
And what it no longer is.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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